ILL SEEN ILL SAID BY SAMUEL BECKETT

Once read twice read. Again. Once read twice read for a third time? No. Say, sad. Too sad. She for a third time to watch Venus rise? No. But on. She, or what’s left. She in her cabin standing or sitting. Decaying while standing or sitting. Alone. No matter. Say, old. Too old. Too sad, Ill Seen Ill Said. But on.

She his only she can move. Slowly. Painfully. To no purpose. But still, on. Pottering among piles of stones. At Night. Ill seen. Twelve men surrounding. Twelve shadows surrounding. Perhaps approaching. Yet never nearer. Say, still. Say, twelve. Say, none. Only an illusion of men. Come to stare. Come, on.

This is Beckett. On death on dying. Always on. No new ground. No matter. And on. His works grew shorter as the life left to him grew shorter also. Dwindled as he dwindled. As though he could not go on. But we must. So on.

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